The History Of Chariots
by Shostakovich
Summary: Isabelle D'Aramitz, cast into poverty by her husband's demise, plays her violins on the streets of Paris until a chance encounter leads her to salvation. Mostly Lerouxbased.
1. Girl in a Field

Pochouse: fish served in red wine.

Waterzoï: a sweet water fish stew.

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_1883_

The wind whistled cheerfully as it skipped across Paris, kicking up little puffs of snow in its wake. The sun's rays weakly streamed down into the streets from its late afternoon angle, and a few clouds skittered across the icy blue sky.

On the Avenue de l'Opéra, candles flickered behind curtained windows and horses flashed by, drawing carriages with the fortunate bundled inside. The unfortunate scuffled along near the buildings, searching for warmth in the bitter cold. The gazes of many never strayed from their own boots or skirts, huddling into themselves to keep warm.

But if they did happen to look up, they might notice a young woman, her chin tucked against a violin and her eyes partly closed to the music. The woman's brown hair was swept into a simple knot at the nape of her slender neck, and her pale hands were steady on the strings and bow despite the cold. A violin case lay open on the ground before her, some francs and bank notes inside. The young woman's nose and cheeks were red from the chilly wind.

As the sun sank behind the building of the Avenue de l'Opéra, casting the young woman into shadows, she began a soulful ballad that was rather popular at the time. A man with a tattered scarf paused for a moment before her, rubbing his hands together and breathing on them, before dropping a few coins into her case and moving on.

The young woman only looked at him after her gaze rested on his patched boots and worn coat, but she gave him a small smile which he returned. He passed out of her line of vision, and she closed her eyes.

The strains of music resonated even as snow began to fall from the heavens.

---

Isabelle D'Aramitz had consciously inspected the man before looking him in the eye. His threadbare outfit made her sure he would be kind; only the poor understood the plight of their brethren, and Isabelle D'Aramitz had been given her plight on an overflowing silver platter. She knew her life was not nearly as bad as it could be, yet she could not help wishing she could return to the time before she had to perform on the cold streets of Paris.

A different street every week was graced with her presence, or so said the old fishmonger at a corner where Isabelle would get fish on Fridays. He would suggest a street, and on Saturday she would go there and play.

The old fishmonger, who was called Yohan, had told Isabelle to go to the Avenue de l'Opéra. He claimed the Palais Garnier, the Paris opera house, was being reopened; Isabelle had indeed spotted a sign over the doors, claiming the brothers Roche, Bastien and Enrick, had bought the Garnier and that it was being renovated.

However, there had been no information about the brothers Roche searching for musicians, or indeed anyone at all. And Isabelle was almost certain the brothers Roche had no interest in hiring a young inexperienced woman.

Though she was not so very inexperienced, now that she was playing her violin for a living.

A light furrow appeared between Isabelle's brows, in part from concentration, part from her unhappy thoughts, and part from the sad music. A carriage was coming towards her; she picked out two sets of hoof beats.

But the carriage stopped before it passed her. Isabelle opened her eyes a little and was startled to see a pair of elegant boots standing mere meters away from her. How strange, that she didn't hear him approach. If she hadn't been so shy, she knew she would stare at him. She was rarely surprised like that.

Isabelle found the man standing there to be strangely disconcerting. Not only because it was a challenge to impress the rich and elegant, but because night was quickly settling in, and Isabelle was usually walking home by now.

So she finished her ballad, drawing her bow agonizingly slowly across the strings one final time before giving a small bow, her eyes still on the black polished shoes. The man knelt and placed a something in her case, but Isabelle saw the flash of a wallet being tucked into the man's inside coat pocket.

Isabelle waited for the man to walk away, not wanting to seem too greedy for the money in her violin case, but he made no move. Rather, he stepped a little closer to her.

"Madamoiselle," the man said; Isabelle nearly fainted at the angelic sound. "May I ask where you learned to play so beautifully?"

Isabelle was rather surprised at the question. She swallowed and raised her eyes to the man's collar. "I learned from my father, monsieur, and from his good friend." She knelt, realizing it was foolish to stand about with her violin becoming ruined in the cold and snow.

She froze when she saw the fifty-franc note sitting under a rose on the velvet lining of her violin case. Reaching out, Isabelle took the rose and spun it between her fingers, smiling as she inhaled the scent. Such good memories came with roses.

"_Merci_," she said; Isabelle had no doubt it was this gentleman who had given her the flower. She stood after putting her violin in the case, and finally raised her eyes to those of the man before her. His eyes were yellow, and glowed from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

"You are very welcome, madamoiselle..."

"D'Aramitz," Isabelle answered.

The man bowed to her. "And I am Erik Destler." Isabelle fixed her grip on her violin, gave a polite smile, and turned to walk away down the Avenue de l'Opéra. "Madamoiselle?"

Isabelle turned back to M Destler, and peered through her fringe up at his chin, then at his yellow eyes. "Madame, actually, monsieur," Isabelle said. "But I must be going."

"Going where, may I ask, Madame D'Aramitz?"

"It is a mystery I have not yet solved," Isabelle said. "Good evening, monsieur."

Isabelle gave a short bow and left the gentleman Destler to his warm carriage and polished shoes, turning her mind to less disconcerting thoughts. It was Thursday; tomorrow she would go see the fishmonger. How she loved her pochouse and waterzoï! Even thinking of the dishes made her smile! Isabelle's step grew livelier, and she swung her arms a little more than she usually did.

The carriage that Isabelle presumed to be M Destler's started moving towards her once more, and Isabelle tensed slightly, wondering if the man would do anything to acknowledge her. All she really wanted was to get to the inn on the Boulevard des Italiens, since she could afford it now, at least for one night and maybe the breakfast.

But the man seemed to not care a whit for her plans, for the carriage stopped next to her, and the driver called down to her: "Madame, I've been asked to offer you a ride if you need one."

Isabelle was shocked; such kindness had become foreign to her. She was immediately suspicious, but M Destler called from inside the carriage in his angelic voice. "You may sit inside the carriage, Madame, or with the driver. I assure you, Samson is quite harmless."

Samson, the driver, smiled kindly down at Isabelle, who was torn between warmth and the open air.

"It's mighty cold outside, madame," Samson said gravely. So Isabelle relented and walked to the carriage door, which opened from the inside. M Destler came to put down the stairs for her, and helped her inside the carriage, handing her violin up to her before climbing back in himself.

"I thank you, monsieur," Isabelle started; she was not quite sure what to say.

Monsieur Destler gave a wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. I have no desire to let another talented musician go to waste, madame." Isabelle gave a small smile. "What sort of violin is yours?"

"It is a Montagnana. It was my father's."

"It is a jewel, to be sure."

Isabelle fingered her violin case fondly. "It has been in my family for five generations, monsieur. My father was very famous while he played it."

"Who was your father, Madame D'Aramitz?"

"Antoine Romilly."

"How extraordinary. I admire his work very much."

"As do I." Isabelle was frowning. "I am so sorry, monsieur, I have forgotten to tell you where I am headed."

Monsieur Destler pressed his fingers together before taking off his hat and spinning it. "I am sure you are not headed anywhere fitting of your talents, madame." Isabelle looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "May I ask where your husband is while you play for coins in the cold?"

Isabelle flushed. "That is really not your business, monsieur."

"I have just made it my business, madame. No man should ignore his wife so, nor let her work in the cold."

"My husband died last year, monsieur. I never would have had to work on the streets if not for his death." Isabelle's voice was steely, and M Destler's yellow eyes softened slightly. "There was a cyclone in the Arabian Sea, it flooded Bombay Harbor—"

"You need not speak of it, Madame. I am terribly sorry for bringing the matter up at all."

"I would be much obliged if you would have your driver drop me at the Hôtel de la Fontaine on the Boulevard des Italiens, Monsieur D'Aramitz."

"I will do no such thing." M Destler's comment shocked Isabelle, and she was about to call for Samson to stop when M Destler said something else. "I cannot let a young widow stay in an inn where one must share a toilet with prostitutes and opium dealers. Please allow me to invite you to my home for the evening."

Isabelle had never been more torn. Monsieur Destler was offering dinner free of charge— but she knew nothing of him. He could be a lecher, maybe a criminal. Yet he knew about music, about Montagnana and violins, and he was kind. Isabelle finally let her heart dictate her response.

"I could not refuse such a generous offer, monsieur. You are an angel."

M Destler winced. "No, not an angel. I am no angel." Isabelle sensed a pain in his voice, but before she could ask about it, he cleared his throat. "I have a housekeeper, Madame Vieuxpont, who will set up a room for you. She will make you feel very much at home; she is also an excellent cook."

Isabelle relaxed; she had never met a woman who would willingly work for a cruel man, and M Destler seemed to think highly of this Mme Vieuxpont.

"Is she married? Madame Vieuxpont, I mean," Isabelle clarified.

"She was engaged, but her fiancé died before they were wed." M Destler peered at Isabelle from beneath the brim of his hat; she looked at her hands in her lap, and sighed.

"How unhappy she must be. If she loved him, that is."

"She has survived," M Destler said, rather bluntly. "It has been close to forty-five years since he died, I believe." Isabelle raised her eyebrows at his acute knowledge of the life of his housekeeper, but said nothing. "I assume you are still feeling the pains of loss."

"You assume quite correctly, monsieur, for I am still quite in love with Christophe. I have not met any man half as wonderful as he since I met him. He used to serenade me, from below my window during the afternoon. I am sure my parents were much amused by him. You only had to see him to know he loved me."

The carriage hit a bump just then, and Isabelle was jostled so that her hands flew out to keep her from falling forward. M Destler caught both her hands and helped steady her; she blushed and murmured "merci", pulling her hands from his.

"Monsieur, madame, just a few minutes until we arrive." Samson's voice drifted through the carriage walls, and Isabelle wove her fingers together.

"Are you cold?" M Destler asked.

"Why, aren't you? The wind is so chill, and even inside here I can feel the cold." M Destler made to take off his cloak, but Isabelle shook her hands and head at him. "No, no, do not do that, monsieur. It is too much, what you are doing already."

Fortunately, the carriage stopped just then, and they heard Samson clambering down from his perch. He pulled the door open for the two of them; M Destler got out first and offered his hand to Isabelle. She took it, concentrating on her footing until her feet met the ground, and then she looked up.

And gasped in awe.

Isabelle had noticed the fine quality of M Destler's clothes and shoes, and his fine speaking and manners, but she had not connected that with a grand, medieval home on the banks of the Seine. The roof was pitched very high, and the windows were tall; the front door was made of dark wood.

While Samson drove the carriage away, presumably to the stables, M Destler led Isabelle up to the front door and unlocked it, and he took Isabelle inside.

The floor was fine marble, the walls covered in paintings. Isabelle was fascinated by the artwork, and she drew away from M Destler to examine a picture depicting a beautiful young child, holding a small bunch of wildflowers and looking very small in an overgrown field.

"Who is this," Isabelle breathed, awed by the realistic quality in the portrait.

"That is no one," M Destler said.

"She is beautiful," Isabelle seemed not to hear M Destler, but she turned to him. "How could this not be a real girl? The sweep of her jaw, her nose— why, she's as real as you or I."

M Destler inclined his head as a woman came in through a doorway to his left.

"Bonjour, monsieur," the woman said, and then she caught sight of Isabelle. The older woman's eyebrows rose in shock, and she pressed her fingers to her lips.

"This is Madame D'Aramitz. Madame D'Aramitz, this is Madame Vieuxpont, my housekeeper."

Isabelle curtseyed as best she could while holding her violin. Madame Vieuxpont curtseyed as well, her small brown eyes sweeping over Isabelle. Isabelle kept her eyes fixed on Madame Vieuxpont's, and after a moment the older woman met Isabelle's eyes.

"A pleasure," Mme Vieuxpont said.

"Madame D'Aramitz shall be joining me for dinner. Please arrange one of the bedrooms upstairs for her." M Destler was taking off his hat, and Isabelle suddenly noticed the flesh-colored mask hiding most of his features. All she could see was his mouth and chin. M Destler turned his yellow eyes to her, and she stared at him, her mouth an "o" of confusion.

"Madame Vieuxpont, if you would kindly show the madame upstairs."

"Of course."

Isabelle followed Mme Vieuxpont, glancing back once to see M Destler standing in front of the picture of the little girl, tracing her features with his eyes.


	2. Boy at a Window

Some French food vocabulary since I know I'd need it:

_Coq au Vin_, literally 'rooster with wine', is a French fricassee of chicken cooked with wine, lardoons, mushrooms, and garlic.

_Crudités_ are a traditional French appetizer comprised of grated raw vegetables soaked in vinaigrette.

_Truffade_ is potatoes sautéed with garlic and young Tomme cheese.

_Piyaz_ is a kind of Turkish salad or Meze that is made from any kind of dry beans with hard-boiled egg and vegetables. (This isn't French cuisine, but I figured Erik would have picked up some recipes in his travels, don't you think?)

* * *

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Madame Vieuxpont began asking Isabelle questions as soon as they reached the top of the grand staircase.

"Madame D'Aramitz, is it? You must be from Aramits." Mme Vieuxpont ran her shrewd eye over Isabelle's features.

"No, I am from Romilly-sur-Seine. My husband was from Aramits." Isabelle clutched her violin tightly; Mme Vieuxpont seemed familiar of sorts, yet Isabelle could not place where she had seen the woman.

"Of course, with D'Aramitz as a surname. And I assume he is related to the philosopher, Bruno D'Aramitz."

"Yes, Christophe was his son."

Madame Vieuxpont's eyes grew dark and sad. "To lose a husband— how tragic. I am sure Monsieur Destler told you my fiancé died." Isabelle went red, but nodded. "He is really quite discrete, you know, I told him to mention it to whoever wanted to know. He never says a word to anyone if that's what he chooses."

Mme Vieuxpont stopped at a door and opened it, leading Isabelle in. "This will be your room, madame."

"Thank you," Isabelle said, and Mme Vieuxpont smiled, not unkindly, at her.

"Madame, you are very young. Do not let your sorrow become a way of life. It does no good to your figure." Mme Vieuxpont winked, but Isabelle was solemn.

"Such good advice is rare, Madame Vieuxpont, and difficult to follow. Can I forget my husband and—" Isabelle paused, and swallowed, and glanced down to compose herself before giving a little smile and looking back up to Mme Vieuxpont. "In time, I will be able to live without a cloud on my spirits."

Mme Vieuxpont gave Isabelle a sharp look, but said nothing more about it. "I have some dresses that may fit you, yours is not fit to be seen in this house. Monsieur Destler is very fashionable, madame, I am certain he must have winced every time he saw you."

"Hmm." Isabelle looked down at her dress, slightly pink cheeked.

With a laugh, Mme Vieuxpont whisked open the armoire, and Isabelle gasped out loud at the first lovely dress Mme Vieuxpont took out and laid on the large four-poster bed.

"These are beautiful," she breathed, scarcely able to contain her amazement. They were fashionable, stylish, and all very sumptuous; the colors ranged from blues and greens to reds and grays. Isabelle ran her fingers over an aqua gown. "My mother had a dress just this color. She was so beautiful in it."

"I'm very sure she was, if she has coloring like yours! I must tell you, I can predict what color will flatter you, madame. I must suggest you try this lavender. It will bring out your eyes. You do have very lovely grey eyes, madame."

Isabelle blushed and murmured a "merci". Mme Vieuxpont laughed at Isabelle's shy behavior.

"You must have been quite the hard-to-get girl before you were married, madame."

A deep blush came to Isabelle's cheeks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, I only assumed it, madame, excuse my prying." Mme Vieuxpont's voice was still full of laughter. "But you are so very modest, so shy! I was never one to be shy about anything, anything that was reasonable, of course." Her nose wrinkled in disdain. "I did hate those talks about money that men always seemed to have. Matters of state, and all those boring things."

"Oh, I am in perfect agreement with you on that," Isabelle quickly put in.

"But you would smile politely and listen with a little smile, madame! I would simply excuse myself and ignore him for the rest of the evening, at the very least. Or if I was desperate, I should slap the fiend! That would certainly make me more noticeable."

Isabelle laughed for the first time in weeks, almost shocked by the blunt, wonderful enigma that the much older Mme Vieuxpont was. She pressed a hand to her heart, her eyes shining from amusement. "Madame, I could not think of doing such a thing! I pity others too much for that. All those poor fools, their heads choked with nothing but politics and money— how do they live? Where is the music in their lives?"

"You are a musician?" Mme Vieuxpont was suddenly very serious, and her gaze was sharp.

"That would explain the violin," Isabelle said, not completely settled from her moment of delight.

"Madame D'Aramitz, do you know why you are here?"

Isabelle blinked. "Why, M Destler was kind enough to invite me to stay here for the night, seeing as he thought I should not be slumming it out in the poorer parts of town. What was it he said? Ah yes, 'with prostitutes and opium dealers'. He was very polite."

"Are you talented with your violin, madame?" Mme Vieuxpont turned away from Isabelle to put back all of the dresses, save the lavender one, in the armoire. Isabelle frowned.

"Well, my father thought I showed some promise, before he died. He was a great master. My brother, well, I know little of what he thinks. I have not seen him since I was a child. And my mother, why, she thought I played like an angel. But I do not think I am an angel," Isabelle finished, hastily.

"Play a little for me, madame?" Mme Vieuxpont turned back to face Isabelle, one of the dresses held to her chest, and Isabelle felt she must have been very pretty as a young woman. She nodded, and moved to the bed to set down her violin case; she had not really noticed her arm to be tired from holding it, but it was.

Isabelle took out her violin and bow, and fixed the shoulder-pad onto the end of the instrument before bringing it to her chin and settling the bow onto the strings. Closing her eyes, Isabelle rummaged through her mind for a song to play, but came up only with something she had written a few days ago, when she had been inspired after praying.

As she played, Isabelle closed her eyes. She had not dared to do so while playing outside in the streets, for fear of someone stealing her hard-earned money or, God forbid, her case, but in the room with Mme Vieuxpont there, she felt perfectly safe. In her mind, she listed off the facts about the song.

_In F minor..._

_In seven-eight time signature..._

_Meant to be sung by a soprano..._

Isabelle's eyes opened at that last thought; she had not heard a soprano fit to sing her work for almost ten years. With a sigh, she stopped, dropping her bow and violin to hang limply by her sides. "That is all," she stated, her voice flat.

Mme Vieuxpont merely stared. "Who wrote that aria?"

"An aria? That is not an aria. It is just something I had in my head, from a few weeks ago."

"Who wrote it? It is magnificent."

"A violin does it no great favors. It was meant for a soprano, madame. Unfortunately, I have not seen the only soprano whose voice I believe to be suitable for the part for almost a decade."

"Yes, well. Did you write it?" Mme Vieuxpont leaned forwards slightly, curious and awed.

"Yes, but it is nothing so special. Nothing next to Mozart, or Beethoven." Isabelle went to put her violin back into its case, but a sudden bob of the head by Mme Vieuxpont towards the door made Isabelle turn in surprise to see M Destler, watching her curiously. With a gasp, she curtseyed as best she could. "I am sorry if I disturbed you, monsieur—"

"Nonsense." His voice was strangely cool, but still very pleasing to the ear. He turned to Mme Vieuxpont, and told her dinner would be served in an hour before turning his yellow eyes back to Isabelle. "Madame D'Aramitz," he said, "I would like to see you in the music room after dinner." M Destler gave a quick nod and disappeared silently behind the door, closing it behind him.

Mme Vieuxpont spun on Isabelle. "He likes your music," she breathed. "He has not been half as open to any music on the planet as long as I have worked for him. He plays, you know— if it makes music, he can play it. And play it well, madame!"

"You mean he is a musical genius?" Isabelle was confused. "And stop with this madame business, call me Isabelle."

"Isabelle, then. He is not just a musical genius, he is a genius at everything. You remember the young girl you were admiring? The painting?" Isabelle nodded. "His. All of it is his. And locked away in his study are these magnificent paintings of a beautiful girl, you know. He was in love with her— she comes alive from his art."

"He is a genius," Isabelle whispered. "And he is a saint."

For a moment, all was silent, and Isabelle reverently crossed herself. She felt blessed, to be in the presence of such a man.

"Well!" Mme Vieuxpont's voice broke through her silent thanks. "I think you ought to try this lavender dress on, and then I shall do your hair. Good heavens, your hair is in such a state of disarray. I hope it is not tangled."

Isabelle gave a weak smile. "It does not usually tangle, madame." She went behind a conveniently placed dressing screen and unbuttoned her dress, the drab grey and white of it suddenly repulsive to her. She stepped out of her boots and slid the dress down over her petticoats, surprised when Mme Vieuxpont mentioned she would need to change those as well.

"The fashion is not very accommodating to those who wish to recycle clothes from year to year, you see," the woman said, oddly cheerful. "So it will be best if I come help you, you see."

Isabelle ran her fingers through her hair, and suddenly her hand stopped as she found a particularly gargantuan knot.

"_Merde_."

---

Isabelle stared at the woman in the mirror, trying to find some resemblance to herself.

"Is that—"

"Yes." Mme Vieuxpont seemed quite proud, and Isabelle knew she had every reason to be so.

Isabelle D'Aramitz had been transformed. No more was she a widowed young woman playing her violin for a living on the streets of Paris in the winter; now, she was an heiress, a belle, a princess. She looked fit to be seen, and Isabelle strangely felt saddened that only M Destler would see her looking so, well, fashionable.

Of course, fashion meant little to Isabelle, now that she was threadbare and poor, but as she stared at herself in the mirror, she was suddenly envious of all the women who looked like this every day, who could be beautiful every day.

But Isabelle was certain it was not worth the pain. Had Mme Vieuxpont been any harsher, Isabelle would have fainted from lack of air. Corsets were not her favorite bits of clothing, that was certain. But they did help smooth down her short waist, and make it seem longer.

So Isabelle was slightly more confident than she might have been otherwise as she followed Mme Vieuxpont down the stairs and into the dining room, where a long table sat, two places set.

M Destler was not there yet, so Isabelle went to look at the paintings on the walls, enraptured once again by a painting of a child. This one, however, was of a young boy, perhaps nine, leaning his head against a window and staring out onto a field. Isabelle imagined the girl from the other painting to be in the field, and saw such incredible sadness in just the small bit of the boy's face that she wondered if her—

No, she would not think of it. Better not to dwell on the past, as Mme Vieuxpont logically stated. Yet despite her efforts to turn her mind to more mechanical thoughts about the painting, a tear caught in the corner of her eye, and she reached up to wipe it away.

"Good evening, Madame D'Aramitz."

Isabelle spun at the silky voice to see M Destler standing behind the seat at the head of the table; the other was directly to its right. She dipped her head in greeting. "Good evening, monsieur."

"I trust your room is reasonable."

"Oh! Oh, yes, it is a lovely room. There was a very lovely view out the window. I saw a set of steeples— is there a cathedral nearby?"

M Destler nodded sharply. "I imagine."

"Do you not attend mass?" Isabelle pressed, confused.

"No, madame. If you would kindly take your seat." M Destler stood behind Isabelle's chair, pulling it out for her and then pushing it back in before sitting down at the head of the table. Isabelle looked at him carefully, trying to figure out more about the strange man who had so generously taken her in.

He had discarded the wide-brimmed hat, and Isabelle could see his dark hair and his ears. He turned his head to look back at her, and Isabelle held his gaze, lifting her chin a little. M Destler gave a little smile.

"I hope you like coq au vin, madame," he said.

Isabelle smiled, and nodded like a child receiving a present. "I've not had it for more than two years, monsieur. But I loved it as a child."

"Well, Madame Vieuxpont has a tender spot for rooster and wine, so that is what she prepared today."

Isabelle was about to reply when a young woman came in from a door across from Isabelle and stopped in her tracked when they locked eyes. M Destler cleared his throat, and Isabelle found herself wondering if M Destler was, indeed, married. She had noticed he wore no ring, but he was a trifle bit eccentric.

M Destler cleared his throat, and the young woman sprang into action. She curtseyed, and spoke in a clear voice about the meal.

"Tonight we will be serving some crudités, followed by coq au vin along with Mme Vieuxpont's truffade, followed by a piyaz salad. Dessert will be at your request, madamoiselle, monsieur." The young woman curtseyed, sending a shy smile towards Isabelle.

Smiling back, Isabelle suddenly felt a wave of generosity towards the girl, who clearly thought Isabelle was a rich lady. "I am Isabelle D'Aramitz," she said. "I am honored to make your acquaintance."

The girl was shocked, but she bobbed another curtsey. "Justine Basset, " she said. "Enchantée, madamoiselle."

"Madame," Isabelle corrected, still smiling. Justine Basset blushed and spun around to disappear back behind the door to the kitchen, or so Isabelle supposed.

"You are unusually friendly," M Destler said, his amusement evident.

Isabelle turned to him, still smiling. "She's very charming, when she isn't rattling off something to memorize."

"Madamoiselle Basset enjoys foreign cuisine," M Destler said. "She has a way with herbs." Isabelle blinked. "She helps in the kitchen." He smiled at her momentary confusion. "Have you traveled much, madame?"

"Oh! Oh, not very much. Only to Germany and Italy, and the western part of Switzerland. Nothing exotic at all. I would very much like to see Egypt."

"Perhaps you will, one day. Ah, Madame Vieuxpont is coming in with our crudités."

Mme Vieuxpont came in and put the crudités on the table between them, and Isabelle waited for M Destler to take a carrot in his long fingers before taking one herself and biting a piece off. Mme Vieuxpont sat in a chair against the wall behind Isabelle, who grew agitated.

She spun in her seat to face Mme Vieuxpont, and seeing the confusion on her face, Isabelle rose to whisper in the woman's ear if she would join her at the table. Mme Vieuxpont smiled kindly and nodded, and Isabelle took the chair in her hands and put it next to her own, more lavish seat.

She had already sat down when she realized M Destler was looking at her with a mixture of amusement, shock, and (Isabelle was quite mortified) horror. She blushed bright red and then M Destler _laughed_.

Isabelle glanced at Mme Vieuxpont, who was trying not to smile.

"Oh, you two are insufferable." Isabelle pursed her lips, but her eyes danced.

And then she laughed.


	3. Hades and Persephone

M Destler disappeared right before desert; although a little bewildered, Isabelle was not very surprised. M Destler was so thin Isabelle could not quite picture him eating a strawberry crèpe or anything of the sort. Certainly not chocolate mousse!

Mme Vieuxpont was eating chocolate mousse with a fervent passion; Isabelle smiled as she took small bites of her crèpe.

"Do you enjoy mousse, Madame Vieuxpont?" she asked, rather rhetorically.

Mme Vieuxpont smiled blissfully around a spoonful and gave Isabelle an amused look. She swallowed and said, "Almost as much as I enjoy mending clothes." Isabelle giggled, feeling quite young. "But not quite as much."

A few more minutes passed in which further friendly banter passed between the two women, and then Isabelle found she had finished her crèpe. "I suppose I should join Monsieur Destler in the music room?"

"Yes, yes, of course— Justine? Justine!"

Justine Basset came in from the kitchen once more, her frail little hands twisted in her lap. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Justine, for goodness sake! Always you think there is something wrong." Mme Vieuxpont tipped her head to the side. "Please take Madame D'Aramitz to the music room, if you will."

Justine's eyes nearly popped out of her face. "The— the music room?" she whispered, shooting a wide-eyed glance at Isabelle, who frowned as she stood.

"Of course." Mme Vieuxpont and Justine exchanged significant looks and then Mme Vieuxpont finished her chocolate mousse and stood, pushing the chair back against the wall. "I will clean up in here, Justine. Go along now, Justine, madame." She flapped her hands in a shooing motion, and Isabelle went out of the dining room behind Justine, baffled.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Isabelle rounded on Justine Basset. "Justine, why does Madame Vieuxpont say you always worry something is wrong?"

"I have not had a very, well, correct sort of life so far, madame. I only assume what I've been accustomed to thinking. Madame Vieuxpont had a happy childhood, you see. If you have a happy childhood, then anything is possible, even after the most horrible loss."

Isabelle frowned. "Is there anything I can do?"

"_Do_? What do you mean, _do_?" Justine's eyebrows disappeared behind her short bangs.

"To help, of course," Isabelle said. Justine gave a soft smile.

"Here is the music room, madame," she said, gesturing to a door with intricate carving on the frame. "I am not allowed in, no one is unless they are instructed inside."

Now Isabelle's eyebrows rose. "How many people have been in the music room since you worked here, Justine?"

"Just Monsieur Destler, madame. Just him."

Isabelle bit her lip and opened the door, disappearing inside the mystery of the music room.

Justine peeked through the door, trying to see the inside of the room, but then she turned away, hand at her heart. M Destler had been staring at her, and she fled back to the kitchens and Mme Vieuxpont's motherly sympathy.

---

The music room in the Destler home was magnificent. The walls featured intricate wooden paneling, finished paintings hung on easels, and a fresco adorned the arched ceiling. Isabelle was reminded of the Sistine Chapel, even though the themes of the painting above her held no godly images. The images were dark and mysterious, and Isabelle stared up above her for a few long minutes, studying the pictures in the fresco with a frown. How could one not frown at the scene of Hades taking Persephone from the world of the living, no matter how beautiful the artistry?

"Madame D'Aramitz."

Isabelle was shocked out of her study of the fresco by M Destler's musical voice and she snapped her head to look at him. "I am so sorry, monsieur, but the fresco is so beautiful—"

"I thank you, and there is no need to apologize. I find myself often to be lost in art, don't you, madame?" Isabelle managed a smile and nodded. "I suppose you've been told horror stories about how I only allow myself into this room of mine."

"Not horror stories, monsieur," Isabelle put in hurriedly. Good heavens, what he must think of her. "Privacy always helped me to become comfortable when I played."

"How on earth did your life become so deplorable that you could find no solace to play for yourself?"

Isabelle flinched at his tone, but steadied herself. "After my husband died, I became aware of our actual financial state. Or rather, I became aware that in order for my mother to survive in peace for the remainder of her life, I must make some, well, sacrifices."

"So you gave everything to a dying mother? Is she still living, even?" M Destler's sneer came through in his voice. Isabelle stared at him, surprised.

"Why, if I had been that needy I would have gone to live with her, monsieur. I am not a complete fool. I know now that my financier cheated me terribly when he stated of the sums we owed, monsieur, but I was so distraught at the time I noticed his deplorable behavior not a bit."

"So you were cheated out of your money?"

"Yes, monsieur, that is what I just said." He seemed to be calming down, and Isabelle bit her lower lip.

"Hm." M Destler ran his finger along the ivory keys of the grand piano he stood before. "Do you play?"

"Piano?" He nodded. "Not very much. I can pick out a melody on one hand, but I never learned that extreme separation of the two hands that playing piano takes. I was... very impatient as a child." At this remark, Isabelle sobered and then brightened. "But I have found my way to be patient, or at least to pretend to be."

"And which is it, madame?"

"Why, I do not know. I suppose it must have been pretend at one point, but I am not so sure anymore. If you act enough, why, you become what you pretend to be."

"No! No, that is not true." M Destler's hands clutched at the music stand atop the piano, and his knuckles whitened even more, if that was possible. Isabelle stepped towards him, hesitating.

"I am so sorry for causing you distress, monsieur, I did not mean it!"

"No, no, of course you did not, madame. But as to your violin," he said, suddenly businesslike. "You play very well for someone so young."

Blushing a little, Isabelle ducked her head. "I am not _very_ young, monsieur."

He chuckled, amused by her shyness. "You cannot be much above twenty. But let us stray away from private topics. How, pray, did you learn to play with such expertise? And from whom, for I have always taken care in knowing the origins of fine art." M Destler sat on the piano seat, and gestured for Isabelle to seat herself.

After settling herself and her skirts on a simple but beautifully cushioned chair near the piano, Isabelle put her hands in her lap. "My entire family has taught me what I know, monsieur. We are all musicians. Well, almost all, for my cousin Pasquale is a scrivener, but that is no matter. We also have dancers in our family; a distant cousin of mine danced at the Paris Opera ten years ago before she married." M Destler stiffened slightly, but made no sound. "My father, as you know, was Antoine Romilly, and he was quite famous while he played on our Montagnana. Then he injured his hand rather badly one day when I was seven, I think, and he stopped playing professionally. He still conducted and taught, but he could not play so well any longer."

"He did compose some, did he not?"

"Yes, he was working on an opera when he died. _Le Roi_, he called it. It would have been so lovely if he had finished it, but alas! God's call is too strong for even my father."

M Destler gave a little huff; Isabelle stared at him. "Are you a Christian?"

"I am nothing, as far as most things go." He shrugged and turned to the piano, suddenly playing a song that Isabelle's father had written. A song her father had written for her mother. Tears swam in her eyes, and her vision clouded, but she could not ask him to stop. Ask him to stop, when he was creating such sounds that a mere piano could not produce without an angel behind it? No, how could she even think of a thing?

"You are not nothing," Isabelle managed, and then she fell into painful sobs, sobs that made even her fingers tremble. "Never." Her tears dropped in a cascade onto the skirt of the lavender dress. The music stopped abruptly. "I'm ruining your dress. I'm so sorry." She wiped the corner of her eyes with her fingers, trying to stop the tears.

"No, do not be sorry, do not cry."

Isabelle felt strangely calm as that voice wrapped around her, and she sighed and opened her eyes, but when that heavenly voice told her to close her eyes she immediately complied. Who could deny such a voice?

And so Isabelle opened her eyes less than thirty seconds later, composed and awed. "You—"

"Tell me, now, who taught you?"

"My- my father. And his friend. I used to call him Uncle Gustaave, though of course he was n-not my uncle. But I never see my real uncle very often, so Gustaave was as close as I could get."

"Who is this Gustaave?"

"Gustaave Daaé, monsieur. He was a brilliant violinist..."

Isabelle trailed off as M Destler's eyes almost popped out of his head, or so she imagined.

"D-daaé? No, this cannot be happening." Isabelle rose, and reached out to M Destler.

"Monsieur? Please, I am so sorry, I did not know, I did not know!" She chanted the phrase like a mantra. He had turned around, and she took a few steps until her fingertips brushed his sleeve. He stiffened, and she drew back. "Please," she whispered.

M Destler took a long, shuddering breath and exhaled. He turned back to Isabelle and placed his long, thin hands on her shoulders. Isabelle bowed her head slightly, and he kissed her forehead.

"You are not nothing," Isabelle whispered. "You are a saint."

To Isabelle, Erik Destler looked the part. His eyes and heart were made of gold.

---

Isabelle looked at herself in the mirror in the washroom attached to the room M Destler had given her for the night. She had put on a night shift that Justine Basset had given her, but she had left her hair in the elegant fashion that Mme Vieuxpont had given her a few hours earlier.

She turned her head this way and that, the candle on the little table before her casting flickering shadows across her face and neck. Isabelle fiddled with her bangs, and tipped her head from side to side, and pulled some strange expressions.

With a rush of tension, she blew out the candle and went into the bedroom, pulling the pins out of her brown hair and letting it fall down around her shoulders. Isabelle ran her hands through her hair, checking for any other pins, and then put the pins on a nightstand.

She slid under the covers and gasped. Silk sheets! Oh, _what_ sort of a saint was this Erik Destler? And the mattress, so soft— how could she have been so saved?

Then a thought hit her, and hit her hard.

It was Friday tomorrow. She could not let the old fishmonger down; oh, how could she have forgot? She would have to leave early, very early, if she was to make it on time. Yohan opened early for her, how could she leave him wondering?

She would have to leave M Destler the saint, and do her part in helping mankind. Or at least, helping one man.


	4. The Montagnana

Some more helpful vocabulary:

_Mirepoix_, a combination of onions, carrots and celery. It is the flavor base for a wide number of dishes, such as soups, stews, and sauces.

_IXe (ninth) arrondissement_, one of 20 arrondissements in Paris. Places of interest include the Palais Garnier ("Paris Opera"), Galeries Lafayette, and Paris Olympia.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Isabelle woke early, as she always did, and slid from between the sheets to rest her feet on the floor. A desolate fog hung over the Seine, but the sun was still visible through the wispy clouds. The twin steeples visible through the window were arms raised to the heavens. Isabelle crossed herself.

Her toes dug themselves into the plush rug as she traced the chilled glass of the window, and she wrapped her arms around herself, dreading going out into the cold. But she had to.

After a few moments, Isabelle sighed and went to fetch her dress, sighing as she ran her hand over the faded blue material. She dressed quickly, hoping she could leave the house before anyone came to her room. In her hurry, she merely pulled her hair back into a horsetail and pulled on her coat.

After finding a piece of music in her violin case that she knew she did not need, she took out her nib pen and wrote a short note to M Destler, thanking him and blessing him, atheist or not. She left the fifty francs that he had given her the previous day and the slightly wilting rose.

In the note, she added her gratitude to Justine Basset and Mme Vieuxpont, and then she slipped out of the room, her violin clutched in her hand.

She moved quietly down the hall, stopping at the top of the staircase. And then she turned around and walked back until she was facing a painting of a beautiful boy.

It was Maxime, down to the little curl of his long thumbs. And the hair was exactly the right shade of brown, and the eyes the right blue. She stood staring at the exact likeness of Maxime, not caring about the way he seemed seven, not two, and not caring about his smile.

Tears slid down her cheeks, and she brushed the painted cheek tenderly, remembering her Maxime's soft skin.

And then she turned away, leaning one hand against the wall until she steadied herself and descended the staircase. She was just opening the door when she heard her name.

"Madame D'Aramitz!" Justine Basset stood in the doorway to the dining room, her hair in a clumsy braid and her eyes wide. "Madame, where are you going?"

Isabelle looked away. "I must go, Justine, I _must_. The old fishmonger is waiting for me. I cannot leave him waiting."

"But at least let me ask M Destler to fetch a carriage for you—"

"No!" Justine flinched at Isabelle's tone. "I cannot take any more from him. He has done too much already, Justine. Please, do not tell them you saw me. Please."

Justine glanced behind her, torn. "I- I will. But I will wait a little while."

Isabelle's eyes clouded with tears of gratitude, and she smiled fondly at the girl. "You are a goddess," she said, and then she slipped out of the door.

Justine drew back into the dining room, wringing her hands together. M Destler might fire her for not telling him— but no, surely he wouldn't.

"But what if he does?" Justine wailed quietly. Mme Vieuxpont came in from the kitchen, hands caked in flour.

"What if who does what?"

Justine only shook her head helplessly. "It doesn't matter, madame. Let's just work on the croissants."

---

After walking almost two miles, Isabelle finally found a cab that would take her to the fishmonger's. She paid what little she could; fortunately the driver regarded her rather haggard state with pity and gave her back some sous.

Isabelle thanked him with a smile and alighted from her perch when they had arrived at Yohan's. She was five minutes later than usual, but Yohan waved it away.

"You are so good to come every week, my dear!" Yohan said

"And you are so good to open early for me," she smiled. She ordered her pochouse and waterzoï, and then she told Yohan that she planned on visiting her husband's grave. "I miss him so very much, Yohan. And my darling Maxime— what I wouldn't do to have them both back!"

Yohan took Isabelle's hands between his own. "Good madame, do not despair. Life will raise you up again. Did you know I lost my daughter as well?" Isabelle shook her head, eyes wide. "A beauty if there ever was one. She looked so much like Clara— her mother." Yohan trailed off, remembering his family. "I miss both of them, but here I am, my dear. Alive, and happy enough."

"But a part of you, missing! I should think you would never want to wake up again."

"It is tempting, but people depend on me. Where would you get your pochouse and waterzoï, if not from me? How would have my ill neighbor have survived ten years more than the doctors predicted if I had not been there to help him? No, Madame D'Aramitz, it is far better to live."

Isabelle thanked him for the advice and gratefully accepted Yohan's invitation to dinner. "Just come to the shop before it closes, my dear. Around six. And if you play for me, you can stay the evening."

Isabelle kissed both of Yohan's wrinkled cheeks before departing. She left the pochouse and waterzoï with Yohan, and then made her way to the Père Lachaise Cemetery.

She walked a mile from Yohan's, barely looking at the street signs as she made her way through busy avenues and deserted alleys. Wind nipped at her ears and nose, and she thought her fingers might have frozen to her violin case's handle. Isabelle wished she had a scarf, gloves, something.

She went into the Père Lachaise Cemetery, struck dumb as usual by all the graves, dotting the snow-covered hillside as gruesome flowers might. Isabelle's mind wandered to God, and wondered how many of the people in the cemetery were in Heaven.

Isabelle could not figure out why she had told Justine Basset that she, Justine, was a goddess. Why not a saint, as she had dubbed M Destler? Or an angel? Why a goddess, when she believed in only one God?

With a sigh, Isabelle shook her head and approached the grave of her 'uncle' Gustaave Daaé, only to stop when she noticed a young couple standing before it. Isabelle only saw the man, but she did not recognize him. Not wanting to interrupt any mourner, she left the two and went down the hillside, trying to stay on the paths despite the thin layer of snow covering everything.

She reached a little path at the bottom of the hill and spotted the tombstone of her husband, and she gave a little cry as she ran the last few meters and threw herself to the ground at her husband's grave. Her violin lay abandoned a little bit away; Isabelle had somehow uncoiled her fingers from the handle.

"Oh, Christophe," Isabelle sobbed. "My love!"

And then Isabelle dragged herself a little to the right, and she clutched desperately at a small stone cross that read Maxime Antoine D'Aramitz, 1879-1881.

"My son, my beautiful Maxime, how I miss you!"

Isabelle cried her fill, and shook with tears and cold. And then she couldn't feel her fingers, and she shuddered. "Someone find me," Isabelle whispered. Her breath fogged her vision, and she closed her eyes.

A bit of wind toyed with her hair, and she let its caress lull her into sleep.

---

Mme Vieuxpont marched downstairs from the room Mme D'Aramitz had stayed and into the kitchen. Justine Basset was peeling some carrots for a mirepoix and looked up rather guiltily.

"You knew she left?" Mme Vieuxpont said. "And you did not tell me?"

Justine hid her face in her hands, her fingertips tinged orange from the carrots. "I told her I would tell you, and was going to! I swear it!" She looked up at Mme Vieuxpont, her chin wobbling. "I promise you, I was going to tell. She was so good, though— she asked if there was anything she could _do_, do for me! Could I truly I refuse such a wonderful person?"

"Could you truly have so little sense, you foolish girl?" Mme Vieuxpont waved a piece of paper at Justine. "She could be frozen! It is colder than it has been all year, quite below freezing, and you let her go out in that with little more than a few scraps of cotton?"

Justine gaped at Mme Vieuxpont. "Where did she go?" She snatched the letter from her older friend, scanning the sloping script. "Must go see Yohan... fish— why fish?" Justine shook her head a little. "She blesses us, and— M Destler, a saint? I can see that."

"But who will tell him she left?" Mme Vieuxpont glanced upwards nervously, and then looked hard at Justine. "You had better. He's still not quite sure what to do with you. You're such a little thing, I think he feels quite lost around you."

"I'm tall for my age, madame!"

Mme Vieuxpont shrugged and picked up the peeler and began peeling the carrots. "You'd best hurry before he finds out himself, Justine, and then he'll think we've had something to do with it."

Justine nodded and scampered out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, having heard an angry melody shouting at her from the third floor. She spun on her heels and raced back to Mme Vieuxpont, panting slightly.

"He's angry, madame," she said, and Mme Vieuxpont threw up her hands.

"Well, I suppose you can still tell him you didn't want to disturb him."

"Madame, I don't think I could disturb him if I tried. I don't even know how to get up there." Justine crossed herself, rather glad she lacked the means to see what M Destler did all the time. "Besides, he wasn't breaking things, he was just playing angry music."

"He doesn't _just_ play music, Justine." Mme Vieuxpont's look was almost reprimanding, and Justine shrugged, not sure what to say. She was rather tone-deaf, and not musical at all. She appreciated M Destler's academic side— his science, and mathematics— much more than his strange music.

"He was very cheerful last night, don't you think?" Justine said. Mme Vieuxpont grunted an affirmative, absolved in chopping the carrots. "Maybe if I look for Mme D'Aramitz and bring her back, he'll be happy again."

"Don't push your luck, girl!" Mme Vieuxpont scolded. "I'm quite annoyed with you already for letting her leave and probably freeze to death—"

"And who is freezing to death, madame?"

M Destler stood in the doorframe, wearing a white mask and staring at the two women with his yellow eyes. Mme Vieuxpont gave Justine a pointed look, and the younger woman stepped forward, hesitant.

"Madame D'Aramitz might be freezing, monsieur," she said, hushed. "She left very early."

M Destler's eyes burned at her, and he thinned his lips. "Where, may I ask? And why?"

Justine hid her hands behind her back and toyed with the end of her messy braid. "She said— wrote, rather, that she had to see a man Yohan about fish." She smiled wanly. "My father was a fishmonger, they say." Mme Vieuxpont gave her a look, and she started. "And she said she couldn't bear to disappoint him, and she says you're a saint and she blesses us all. And she says thank you," Justine added.

Mme Vieuxpont shrank a little at M Destler's accusing stare. "I did not see nor hear her leave, monsieur. Justine—"

"I saw her, but could not refuse her desire for secrecy. Do not blame Madame Vieuxpont. She is at no fault." Justine met M Destler's gaze, lifting her chin. "I at the one responsible if Mme D'Aramitz comes to harm because she was not suitably dressed for the weather."

M Destler turned and disappeared from their sight, but his voice spoke again before both of them, completely disembodied.

"_Find her NOW!_"

Justine shrank back from the booming command and ran to fetch her warmest cloak, holding out Mme Vieuxpont's cloak for her.

"We can't go out now!" Mme Vieuxpont said. But she took the cloak.

"I meant what I said, madame. I am responsible, and I know she is going to freeze if she is out there much longer." Justine's voice shook. "I do not want to be the cause of such a good woman's death."

Mme Vieuxpont wrapped a scarf about her gray hair and then tucked another around Justine's blonde head. "Go have the stable boy harness the horses to the post-chaise. And make sure he's quite all right in the cold."

"Gaspard Jules is never cold, madame."

"Make sure he's quite all right in any case, my dear. I'd much rather not have his aunt on my head."

Justine did not know Gaspard's aunt, so she did not elaborate, but instead scurried out through the biting cold to the stables and the strangely ever-content Gaspard.

He would have his hands full soon enough, driving postilion with the two mares.

---

_Excerpt from the Estimable Journal of Axelle Di Donato; 1883._

I suppose I might start from the beginning, since that generally is The Thing To Do when one starts to write.

And since this is not a truly honest account of everything that happens in the short time this little book lasts me, or I last it, I see no reason not to inform you of who I am, or at least who I pretend to be, and how I came about having this little book. I might tell a few slight untruths, but truly this is the way I see myself.

My name, I suppose, would be helpful to have. It is Axelle Cosette Di Donato, Cosette being my middle name. Very few people know that it is my middle name, and I would be quite happy to keep it as such. Cosette is far from being a name I like for myself. My father was Raffaele Di Donato, a musician and scrivener from Rome; my mother was a soprano and voice teacher here in Paris. She was from Romilly-sur-Seine.

I also have a brother Pasquale, but we have not spoken through ought but letters for at least three years, I believe, save for when I saw him briefly at my mother's funeral, and he has not been very important to me in the past few years. I am much closer to my dear, dear cousins, Baptiste and Isabelle Romilly.

Although, Isabelle married some time ago and is now the widow D'Aramitz. You may have heard of her late husband's father, the philosophic writer Bruno D'Aramitz.

Baptiste, of course, is not married, and I cannot imagine him any other way. He is a bit of a rake, you see, and quite unable to achieve any long-lasting attachment to anything, save Isabelle. He is currently living in Germany to learn more about the culture and music there; he is a musician, like most of our family. We are all quite musical, excepting my brother Pasquale. He is unfortunately tone-deaf.

I should like to make a list of what my family does, musically. I myself sing, though not so very well; my mother was a wonderful soprano and voice teacher; my father played a little bit of everything, and he excelled on the pianoforte. My good Christian uncle Félix Romilly is the Minister of Music in a church in Rome just outside of the Holy See. His brother my uncle Antoine was a violinist, conductor, composer, and music teacher; his girl Isabelle plays violin; his boy Baptiste plays the cello.

I could go on quite forever; I have only done my parents, my uncles, my cousins, and myself. Not very many when we have had a Montagnana in the family for five generations!

Of course, I consider myself lucky that I need to buy nothing to play. I need only open my mouth, and tra-la! Out comes music. Nothing silly to unpack from a heavy case. Though carrying a case would make my arms stronger, I imagine. My cousin Isabelle is very strong from carrying her violin all the time.

Today, actually, I saw Isabelle for the first time in about two years, which was when her son Maxime died. I had gone to the Père Lachaise Cemetery to visit my parents' graves, which are halfway down the hill. I was surprised to see anyone at the old Daaé crypt, which is rather close to my parents' graves, but there was a handsome young couple who left soon after my arrival.

I remember Monsieur Daaé used to teach Isabelle violin, along with Uncle Antoine. His name began with a 'g', perhaps Gaston? No, no, that is not right. It is not so very important, I suppose.

In any case, I noticed a person lying against a grave down at the bottom of the hill, and I went down to help them. Much to my surprise and displeasure it was none other than Isabelle D'Aramitz frozen down there!

I enlisted the aid of a nearby Asian fellow who helped me bring her back to the street, where e introduced himself as the Daroga of Mazanderan Court.

He was rather put off when I said, "Are you from Arabia?"

"Persia," he replied.

So he is the Persian. He asked me quite firmly not to disclose his name; it was a great trial trying to figure it out and all for naught! I cannot thank the man properly; I must call him 'Daroga'. Ridiculous, if you ask me. I like to call people by their names, not a title which can be so easily taken away!

We realized that we both lived on the Boulevard Haussmann in the IXe arrondissement, and the Persian insisted upon helping me bring Isabelle up to my apartment, while I took "merely the violin," he said.

I did not say it out loud, but I think Isabelle would rather she come to harm than the Montagnana, but she was not awake and her skin was very cold and very pale, so I decided it would be best not to argue.

That Montagnana is a piece of art, and I appreciate art. I appreciate the Montagnana.

I gave Isabelle a warm broth to heat her insides as soon as she was put into my guest room where my brother would stay, if he ever visited. And I was singing under my breath, as I normally do, when the Persian bid me stop!

I almost slapped the man, but then he said I sounded very much like the love of his friend's life, who had jilted him. (Of course, the Persian went about it all quite elegantly: she was not right for him, etceteras, but that was what he meant.) I told him he would have to suffer and excuse me for not giving up an old habit. He was quiet for a few minutes, and then bade me sing a certain aria from Faust, which I did quite happily, and then he quitted my apartment.

I wondered who his friend's lover was, for I had not heard anyone who sounds as I do, quite.

I knew I would be familiar with her, for how could I not be? I know nearly all of the sopranos in Paris, and I did not think it would be too difficult to find out who it is.

It was not; I merely visited a neighbor of mine, a Madame Valérius, who told me I sounded just like a girl who used to live with her. "Christine Daaé," she said to me.

I think she must be related to M Daaé, whose name begins with 'g'— Gustaave! That's it. I do believe he had a daughter; it must be her.

I wonder who she jilted?


	5. Arrangements of Fish

Some more helpful vocabulary:

_Post-chaise_, a fast-traveling carriage of the 18th and early 19th centuries. It was closed and four-wheeled for two or four horses and with the driver riding postilion.

_Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary_, a Christian women's community dedicated to "whatever work could contribute to the glory of God and the salvation of persons" formed in 1849 in Béziers, France.

_Chesterfield_, a long, tailored overcoat of herringbone tweed, with a velvet collar, worn over a suit or dress.

Also— Gaspard Jules, Gaspard, and Jules are the same person here, just referred to by different people.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Justine Basset and Mme Vieuxpont were riding down the Boulevard des Italiens in the post-chaise. M Destler had bid them go there to search for Mme D'Aramitz, along with the Rue de l'Opéra. Gaspard Jules drove the post-chaise, keeping an eye out for any women with violins.

"Jules, find the Hôtel de la Fontaine," Mme Vieuxpont called, knocking on the wall near where Gaspard Jules sat in the cold. He knocked back, acknowledging his acquiesce.

"Madame, what if we do not find her? Will he be very angry with me?" Justine wrung her hands in her lap. "Will he fire me?"

"If he does do such a silly thing, I shall have a word with him. Or perhaps threaten Jules's aunt upon him. She's quite stubborn." The carriage rolled to a stop.

"Who is his aunt?" Justine said.

The door opened and Gaspard Jules answered. "Madame Giry." He offered his hand to the two women; Justine accepted his help with a pink blush and Mme Vieuxpont took his hand in her wrinkled one and thanked him. "What about my aunt?"

"Should M Destler try and fire Justine, I think Madame Giry can be sure to have something to say about it."

"Ah, no she won't." Gaspard scratched the back of his head and bit his lip. "I'm quite sure my aunt has absolutely nothing to say to M Destler. Positive, actually."

"Why, I can't think of a soul who couldn't not speak with M Destler. He knows so much." Justine breathed on her hands and rubbed them together as Gaspard led her and Mme Vieuxpont into the Hôtel de la Fontaine.

The inside was only slightly warmer than outside, being that the fire needed rather desperately to be stoked. Justine shivered and quickly glanced away when she caught a man's eyes. The man approached the group of three despite Justine's initial shyness.

"Hello," the man said to Justine. "I am David Fontaine. My father started this hotel, and I run it now. May I help you?"

"We're looking for someone," Mme Vieuxpont said. "A young woman, with brown hair and a violin."

M Fontaine frowned and then shook his head slowly. "I don't recall seeing her recently. Does she owe you money?"

"Of course not!" Justine's eyebrows had disappeared into her bangs again. "She left unexpectedly from our home this morning, and, well, she left something." Mme Vieuxpont shot her a look, but Gaspard took her hand and nodded.

"She left her aria, monsieur. I am quite sure she would want it back." The man shrugged, clearly uninterested if money was not concerned. "Thank you for your time." Gaspard grasped Justine's elbow and led her out of the Hôtel de la Fontaine, Mme Vieuxpont on their heels. The frigid air made Justine slump into her cloak; Gaspard put his arm around her waist for extra warmth.

"I did not truly like that man," Justine shivered. "He is too quick to assume people have done ill."

"He has no trust of others, that's what you mean," Mme Vieuxpont agreed. "A lecher, too, if there ever was one."

Justine stopped just short of the post-chaise. "Didn't she put in her note to us that she was to visit a fellow Yohan about fish? Couldn't we ask about that?"

"Of course! Jules, go ask the fellow in there about Yohan the fishmonger. Maybe he knows the man."

Gaspard disappeared into the Hôtel again and Mme Vieuxpont climbed into the carriage. Her eyes widened considerably when she saw M Destler was sitting inside as well. Justine hesitated when Mme Vieuxpont did, but came quietly when M Destler gave her a look.

"I trust you have been watching for Mme D'Aramitz?"

Justine shivered slightly from the combination of the cold and the haunting voice of M Destler.

"We have been, monsieur," Mme Vieuxpont said. "Jules is asking about Yohan the fishmonger in the Hôtel. He will be back—"

"Here he comes," Justine interrupted. She waved from the window of the post-chaise; Gaspard waved back and climbed up into his driving position, cracking the reins. "He's taking us there," Justine said. "He found out."

"Or perhaps he found out someone who might know the Yohan fellow," Mme Vieuxpont said.

"I believe he has a final destination. Jules would know to conference with me if he had more than one stop before his final destination."

"Ah."

Mme Vieuxpont fell silent, and Justine gave no further insights, leaving the trio in uneasy quiet until the post-chaise came to a stop.

"I smell fish," Justine said— the stench was, indeed, overwhelming. She held her hand to her nose, and then Gaspard appeared outside the door, offering his hand to help the two women out. He nodded to M Destler, who thinned his lips in response.

As soon as Justine and Mme Vieuxpont were on the ground, Gaspard shut the door to the post-chaise and the three went into the shop leaking the fishy smell.

"Would you rather wait outside?" Gaspard said to her, grinning. "Surely the cold is much better than this stink." Justine swatted his arm, but smiled at him.

"Don't be so rude, Jules!" Mme Vieuxpont moved up in front of the counter and addressed the man who was putting ice in with the fish. "Are you Yohan, monsieur?"

The man turned quickly, directing a polite but confused smile at Mme Vieuxpont. "Yes, I'm Yohan. Can I help you?"

"We are looking for a young woman," Mme Vieuxpont said. She beckoned over Gaspard and Justine. "Brown hair and a violin—"

"Madame D'Aramitz?"

"Yes! She left something with us last night—"

"Why, what on earth could she have left? She left her fish with me, and she had her violin. She keeps everything in that case."

"She left a piece of music with us, her own composition," Gaspard said. "Is there anywhere we can find her?"

"It's very important, monsieur," Justine added. "Please, do you know?"

Yohan stared at Justine for a moment before nodding. "She said she was going to visit her husband's grave. He is at the bottom of the Père Lachaise cemetery— Christophe D'Aramitz and Maxime D'Aramitz."

"Who is Maxime?" Mme Vieuxpont said.

"Why, her son."

Justine clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified. Mme Vieuxpont nodded thanks to Yohan and ushered Gaspard and Justine out.

"Please tell me if you find her, and if she is well," Yohan called to them. "She is like my daughter."

Justine turned and promised him they would, and then Gaspard took the reigns, Mme Vieuxpont and Justine got back into the post-chaise, and the carriage whipped through the Paris streets to the Père Lachaise cemetery, where husbands lay buried, and fathers, and sons.

---

_Excerpt from the Estimable Journal of Axelle Di Donato; 1883._

Isabelle has been at my apartment for two hours and is still in her cold-induced sleep. I asked Madame Valérius if she had any ideas that I might be able to use and she took that as an invitation to invade my home to make a special tea. I don't mind, she's a very lovely woman, but I do like having my own space.

She just left, actually, and since Isabelle is not very exciting in her comatose state I decided to take out this Estimable Journal of Mine and write more, seeing as my other neighbor is ill and his wife asked me to desist being musical to help his recovery. I would have refused, of course, but I decided happy neighbors are good neighbors.

I remember my neighbors from when I lived in London. They were so bloody horrible! (To note, I've never called anything else 'bloody'.) They were an old miserly couple that never got along. I think they were an arranged marriage or perhaps the result of a scandal, because that relationship is just full of ill will. Mr and Mrs Creevey. They did have one son named Hubert, who would be about forty now. He was as awful as his parents. Is being miserable passed down from your parents, like musical talent is?

I think it would be best if I stopped thinking about horrible neighbors, lest I get paranoid, God forbid. Reveling in my wonderful neighbors will certainly make me happier.

I do hope nothing is wrong with Isabelle. I've no idea why she was at Père Lachaise today; she usually only goes on their birthdays and the anniversaries of their deaths. Though last year she did go on Christmas. But it's only November now. I can't imagine any reason for her going. Perhaps she just wanted to go. I can't say _I_ had any feasible reason for going to Père Lachaise today. I just decided it was a good day.

I miss them. My parents, I mean. My mother was the one who taught me how to sing when I was a girl, and she would tell the most wonderful stories. She brought me into the Religious of the Sacred Heart of Mary, and she taught me how to be pleasant, because as a young child I was rather awful. But with my Maman's help, I was able to be a lady's companion to Princess Victoria of England for six months in 1879. She was quite enamored of my voice, even though she admitted to me she'd heard better-trained voices. Granted, however, my mother lost her voice when I was thirteen.

She sounded like an angel, absolutely. I've not heard anything as beautiful as her voice since forever, I suppose. I do miss her very much.

And my father! He didn't have a perfect voice like Maman, but he could play on anything that made noise. He used to tap on his dishes with his silverware and make a symphony at dinner. He was very funny. He made Maman laugh so much!

Even my brother Pasquale was amused by my father's percussion symphonies, seeing as he is tone-deaf and cannot hear the music as the rest of us can. Pasquale is such an enig

---

Isabelle winced at the dampness on her skin and spat out the bit of hair caught between her lips.

"Isabelle! Oh, thank God."

She squinted to focus her eyes on the smiling face of her cousin. "Axelle," she said. "What—"

"Hush, darling, hush. You were at Père Lachaise, half frozen. I brought you back here."

"All by yourself?" Isabelle smiled weakly and coughed. "Is the Montagnana safe?" Axelle Di Donato nodded and brushed some hair off of Isabelle's face.

"A Persian fellow helped me. He lives down the street from me. Open up." Axelle put a thermometer in Isabelle's mouth and checked the clock. "I started a journal. You're in it." Axelle frowned. "Well, seeing as I stopped writing just now to attend to you, you'd have to be in it."

Isabelle smiled and listened to her cousin talk lightly even as she inspected the thermometer with frowning eyes. "Axelle." Isabelle couldn't help but interrupt her cousin, with whom she had always been casual. "Will I be all right?"

"I'm no doctor, Isabelle! Let me fetch Madame Valérius. My neighbor."

Axelle disappeared to get her neighbor and Isabelle struggled to sit up. She saw her dress and most of her clothes folded across a chair near a small fire and fingered the white nightgown she was wearing, figuring it to be her cousin's.

Isabelle sent a little prayer out to God in thanks for her cousin, for she was certain that she could very well have frozen to death if Axelle had not found her. She settled back into the pillows and then quickly shot back up again.

Yohan! She promised she would see him for dinner! Oh, how was it that Yohan was paying for her foolishness so many times in one day?

Even though her head spun, Isabelle pushed the blankets off of her legs.

"Isabelle! What are you doing?" Axelle had returned, and she rushed to put her cousin back into the bed. "Do you want to catch your death? Really, the things you do. Sometimes I wonder that you're not trying to kill yourself."

Isabelle shook her head, helpless against her cousin's antics. She noticed an older woman carrying a teacup and flashed her a smile. "Are you Madame Valérius?"

"_Oui_, that I am. I hear you knew Gustav Daaé?"

"Oh yes! I called him Uncle Gustav— he taught me violin with my father. And his daughter has the voice of an angel. I wrote an aria for her, you know."

"Your lovely cousin here could sing it. Her voice is much like Christine's."

"You know Mlle Daaé?"

"La, she is the Comtess de Chagny now. She is like my daughter, ever since her father passed on." Madame Valérius crossed herself reverently. "It was my husband who brought them to Paris. We were both entranced by them. Here, drink this."

Isabelle took the teacup from Mme Valérius and sipped the tea.

"I think I saw the Comte and Comtess today," Axelle said. "Someone was at the Daaé crypt. I can't imagine who else it might be. Here, Isabelle, sit up and I'll fluff your pillows." Isabelle obediently lifted her head and smiled at her cousin. "There, lovely. You are the portrait of a sleeping beauty. Perrault would have been inspired but such a vision."

"Oh, Axelle, you tease me so." Isabelle yawned. "Please, would you go to Yohan's, and tell him I am well?" Axelle nodded as took the teacup and saucer from her cousin.

"Who is Yohan?" Mme Valérius frowned a little.

"My fishmonger. I promised I would sup with him tonight, but I think I will not be able to go."

"Of course not! I'll bring him here. He's a nice fellow— he makes the best pochouse. And his window displays are surprisingly artistic, madame. He's brilliant, for a fishmonger."

"But not for a rich young lady?" Isabelle said. Axelle swatted at her cousin's arm and flounced out of the room, returning to stand in the doorway as she fastened the button on her charcoal Chesterfield. "Madame Valérius, you needn't stay."

"Now, now, madamoiselle, I am not the sort to leave a poor soul alone in illness."

"To say last rights?" Axelle smirked.

"For company, my dear. Be off, now." Mme Valérius waved off Axelle, who took her key and hat and gloves and bobbed down the stairs to the Boulevard Haussmann to visit Yohan, arranger and maker of fish and pochouse.


End file.
